Ham. I'le walk Sir, in the Cloyster. [Exit.
Rus. Monsieur Latorch; my Son,
The Stars are happy still that guide you hither.
Lat. I'me glad to hear their Secretary say so,
My learned Father Russe, where's la Fiske,
Monsieur de Bube, how do they?
Rus. At their studyes,
They are the Secretaries of the Stars, Sir,
Still at their books, they will not be pull'd off,
They stick like cupping glasses; if ever men
Spoke with the tongue of destiny, 'tis they.
Lat. For loves sake let's salute 'em.
Rus. Boy, go see,
Tell them who's here, say, that their friends do challenge
Some portion of their time, this is our minute,
Pray 'em they'l spare it: they are the Sun and Moon
Of knowledge; pity two such noble lights
Should live obscur'd here in an University,
Whose beams were fit to'illumine any court
Of Christendom.
Enter la Fisk, de Bube, and Pippeau.
Lat. The Duke will shortly know 'em.
Fis. Well, look upon the Astrolabe; you'l find it
Four Almucanturies at least.